


But no such roses see I

by canyouseemyspark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abortion, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, First Time, Prompt Fic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canyouseemyspark/pseuds/canyouseemyspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://got-exchange.livejournal.com/">got-exchange</a> prompt: Lysa, when the poison takes effect and she miscarries Petyr's child, <i>A flavor so familiar I no longer taste it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	But no such roses see I

“Tears, tears, tears,” a voice said, screeched, the taste of salt on her lips and a pain in her chest so deep, so like the cold blade of a knife that it made her scream, “I told Father… he’ll rise high… his little baby in my belly.”

The feel of a warm scalp in her hands, soft hair, except when she looked down it was not red, only brown, and even with the cold wind swirling around them, threatening to engulf them both, it was all wrong, something felt wrong. This girl was screaming, yelping, kicking. Be quiet, be still, she wanted to scream, this is not your place, but then she heard his voice.

She was in his arms. Lavender, ginger, leather, all mixed into one, warmth and comfort, and she could forget about the crying girl with brown hair that was not red and blue eyes that made her want to weep, forget about Riverrun, dead babes, cold husbands, tears that turned into screams, tears in a cup.

“Only Cat.”

Wind and cold.

Nothing.

 

She stands at the top of the tower, the howl of the waterwheel churning and shaking beneath her, her toes on a slippery edge. One inch more and she would be down there, drowned if the fall itself does not kill her first. There is water on her face but whether it is from the Tumblestone, its cool waters pushed upwards by the wheel and threatening to soak her dress. She tastes salt and brings her hands up to her face to wipe them away.

They’re shaking, she realizes.

She hears a shriek of laughter and turns to find Catelyn, her hair unbound, the mess of red waves falling across the white of her neck, Petyr tugs at a loose strand, eliciting a half-pained half-pleased yelp from Cat. He does not release it right away. Instead, he caresses it between his fingers, feels the weight, the softness of it. For one terrified moment, Lisa thinks he may lift it to his mouth but then the door opens and Edmure comes running towards them, his bare feet smacking against the wet ground, a scowl on his face, and Petyr drops his hand to his side.

“You left me all by myself,” He pouts, “Father said you should watch me but you always leave me by myself.”

He lifts up his chubby arms, a supplication for Cat to lift him up, to repair his wounded childish pride. She looks as though she might, as she has many times before, his sister and his mother all at once, but then Petyr plucks the daisy she has tucked behind her ear and suddenly, they are chasing each other down the stairs, their laughter echoing through the tower, jangling against the clamor of the rushing waters.

Edmure looks around, confused and hurt at having been left alone once again, and his face becomes flushed, his lip shaking and his eyes beginning to water. He opens his mouth to wail until he spots Lysa.

“Why are you crying?” He asks, indignant that his sorrow was not his alone, jealous over it in the way he hoarded toys and present, unwilling to share it, to part with even a piece of it.

Lysa brings her fists to her face and wipes furiously at her wet eyes. It is only water from the river.

“Let’s go find Petyr, if you ask nicely he might make mud pies with you,” She hears herself say.

She reaches out and Edmure considers her warily, before putting his chubby hand in hers and pulling her away to find her father’s ward.

 

He is handsome, this Stark lad.

When the betrothal was announced, Lysa felt bad for her sister. Cat loved the sun, the feel of warm waters at her skin, her feet sinking into the mud. Petyr said there was no place, no time to play in the North. It was all snow, and cold that chased you, snaked in between the cracks of the old stones that held up Winterfell, gripped your heart and clung to it until it had wrested out all its warmth. Even if you managed to survive a winter, Petyr explained, there were wildlings and gods knew what else waiting Beyond the Wall with nothing but a few green boys, rapers and thieves, standing between the Northerners and their deaths.

Cat wept that night, though she did not show it as they lay together on the floor of her father’s solar, every gust of wind outside or sound of a door creaking in the keep sending them screaming, curling closer together. It was not until Petyr was sent to bed and Edmure taken away by his nurse when his crying grew too loud, when Lysa tucked in the bed beside her sister when she heard soft sobs coming from beside her.

“I’m scared,” Lysa thought she heard her whisper but in the morning Cat was herself again, sitting beside her father, her head bowed and a calm smile on her lips as she read a piece of parchment.

Lysa felt sorry for Cat, she truly did. Brandon Stark would surely be some lumbering Northerner, bigger than his horse with a matted beard that went down to his waist. His breath would smell of turnips and his nails would be caked with grime, and he would say “milord” and “milady” and drink too much at dinner.

It would be her duty to help her sister, Lysa decided.

So when Brandon Stark led his black horse into the yard, flanked by his companions, all of them young, all shining with the arrogance of youth, Lysa held her breath. When he removed his hood, she inched closer for a better look. When he turned towards them (towards Cat), his grey eyes warm, his lips as red as the flowers that grew on the forest floor in summer, every bit the lord, the warrior, the lover, Lysa felt something inside her shrivel.

 

Perhaps it had been the same for Petyr. The grinning boy who would play pranks on the kitchen maids, pulling their chairs out from behind them so they would land on the ground with a thud, had turned into something darker, something rotten. While Lysa had been paralyzed by the sadness (the guilt, the hate?) that seeped into her bones whenever she saw the letters with the broken dire wolf seal on Cat's desk, Petyr was spurred to action. A challenge. Brandon Stark, his face grim, a silent fury burning behind his grey eyes. Petyr, begging, pleading with Cat for something. Then the sound of sword against sword, and blood, streaming out of Petyr's ribs, his stomach, his chest. 

Brandon threw his sword down in disgust and stormed off. Edmure picked it up gingerly. Cat hesitated for a moment, her face pale, before following her betrothed. Lysa knew what she had to do.

 

It had hurt, hurt more than she expected. The strain on her maidenhood, the stinging, the tearing as he entered her, his hands gripping her hips. He's mine, she thought, I have something all to my own. "Catelyn," he whispered, "Catelyn," he called, and that hurt worst of all.

 

"A gift from the gods," She wept, "I'll be a good mother, I swear it, a good lady wife. Please, you can't, you can't!"

A woman grabbed her hair. She was weak, from the mother's sickness and the tears she had wept as she watched Petyr ride off, from the look in her father's eyes, icy and scorching all the same. Did I ever love him, she wondered idly, as her mouth was pulled open and liquid was poured, trickling over her chin and her neck. She fought it, thrashed around, but she was sobbing and her father was growing angrier by the moment. I have always been a dutiful daughter, and she swallowed. 

She did not call the maids when it happened, did not scream for Petyr, for her uncle, her mother. When the pain had subsided, the twisting and turning of her guts calmed, Lysa reached down and touched her shift, the sheets, the mattress. Her hands were stained with blood. For a moment she thought something inside her would split, and she was terrified. She would not, could not break.

They will pay for this, Petyr.

 

This girl with hair that was not quite red, this girl who was Cat, who was the fruit of her sister’s womb, this girl who would steal Petyr away, this girl would bring back all she had lost.

It would be easy. A simple push and she would be gone. But then Petyr was there and suddenly she did not seem so important, suddenly Cat, Sansa, Alayne, was no longer there, no longer a threat.

But she was falling, sinking, flying.

Weeping.

No more.


End file.
